Oh, How They Met! (And Everything in Between)
by OceansAria
Summary: From the first day Molly and Sherlock knew each other through all other moments of their interesting lives-from firsts to lasts; from like to love, and, of course, a dash of angst-ridden passion here and there. *will be updating as often as possible*
1. When Sherlock met Molly

**Hey y'all! **

**I'm back with another quick little Sherlolly drabble . . . yes, they are my newest fixation :P**

**I adore this couple and all of the tension between them! They're just lovely! I wouldn't mind if nothing overly romantic ever became canon because it wouldn't exactly seem right. But I also wouldn't mind another steamy kiss either ;)**

**Anywho! Hope you like! Let me know in the comments if I should write more Sherlolly, how I'm doing with their characters, or whatever you ****want to say, dearies.**

**XOXO,**

**OceansAria**

* * *

His eyes, a vivacious mixture of sea foam and gold, were turned quizzically upward at the outer edges, as if he were always in a state of either smugness or exhilaration. The severely sharp Cupid's bow of his upper lip was a stark contrast to the flat outline of his equally full lower lip. Both rosy, both pursed in—yes, she could see it now—smugness. Polished, dark mahogany curls dappled over his forehead and the top of his coat's high collar at the nape of his neck. His cheekbones were high and haughty; his unblemished porcelain skin held naught a sign of acne in adolescence.

Had she not shook his outstretched hand and felt the warmth of his flesh through his leather glove, Molly would have thought him a life-sized doll.

"I'm Molly Hooper. Nice to meet you." She had to lick her lips just to get it out, for her mouth had gone dry from gaping so long. A blush bloomed over her cheeks; surely, he thought her a fool already.

The faintest polite smile passed over his lips. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Mike said you wanted to take a look-see at some bodies?" Stuffing her hands in her lab coat pockets, she tried to stop the urge to tap her foot or play with her hair. His scrutinizing gaze did nothing to calm her rattled nerves.

"Yes."

"Then I'm your girl." She giggled, though it sounded more like a gurgle. "I-I mean, not your _girl_, that sounds silly! Just the right pathologist—"

Sherlock's gaze narrowed further. "If you could lead the way to the morgue, please, Dr. Hooper." (Though he knew the way by memory, he simply wanted to end her babbling before it began.) "That would be _marvelous_."

Was it even possible for her blush to burn hotter?

"Oh! Yes, yes, of course. Sorry."

Turning on the heel of her loafer, Molly took off determinedly in the opposite direction towards their destination. The hairs on the back of her neck and along her spine rose hearing his clipped, yet soft footfalls not far behind. _Catlike, _she thought. Once they arrived, she busied herself with pulling out the corpses for the detective and then showing him the paperwork for each, though he seemed to have no need for it or her help.

Sherlock was swift in his examinations, muttering to himself and not bothering to take a single note. He sniffed and poked and swiped. The longer Molly watched, the more questions she had, but she only posed one.

"So. How'd you land such a peculiar job, Mr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock," he mumbled, peering at the crease of one dead man's elbow.

"Pardon?"

"I prefer Sherlock. And the story behind that question isn't all that engrossing, Dr. Hooper."

Molly jotted down something on her clipboard. "You can call me Molly, then. If you want to be on a first name basis. Since Mike's moved back upstairs with his work, I guess we'll be seeing each other some."

"Molly," Sherlock emphasized with a click of his tongue. He had finished with the second cadaver and moved now to the third. He never once glanced up. "Tell me, Molly, was it cancer?"

She froze, just barely managing to squeak out: "_What_?"

"Your father's demise. Fairly recent due to the state of that hideous jumper you're wearing—possibly one of his you wear out of sentiment, as well as the oversized, tarnished watch on your left wrist. There's circles under your eyes and by the state of your jeans, you've lost weight, not to mention the way your shoulders slump in a from your exhaustion. He's only been gone a year or less if you're still trying to indulge yourself in sentimental items as a comfort. So, was it cancer? Or another nasty disease? Certainly it wasn't as sudden as an accident or you wouldn't be as put-together as you are so soon after."

All throughout his tone had been clipped, devoid of emotion, to the point. Like an arrow or a bullet. Lethal.

Molly sputtered, stopped herself, and turned her back to hide the tears threatening to run down her overheated cheeks. "I-I've heard about you being good at deducing people but—" she spun back to face him, her clenched fists quivering.

He had straightened from bending over the final body, posture impeccable and his eyes —those spectacularly curious eyes—once again slitted, causing for her to flinch away. She rubbed at the watch on her wrist for courage.

"That was kind of blunt don't you think?"

"Would you rather I sugarcoated it?" He retorted, quick as a whip.

Molly shook her head hastily. "No, no, I guess not." She set aside her clipboard. The trembling had spread from her hands to her elbows and knees. "Do you . . . do you always deduce people to their faces? Even if you hardly know them?"

Sherlock smirked, stepping closer. He bent slightly forwards—as if this entire interaction was made to intimidate her, to make her feel belittled.

"How would I get to know people otherwise, _Molly_?"

The detective was gone with a flap of his coat and a click of his heels on the tile before she could find the correct reply. Possibly because she didn't have one—or possibly because the detective's goal was to leave her utterly speechless. Thoughts of the mysterious man would bother Molly until his next visit, and she knew it would be a long time before she had a good enough comeback to mute Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Bed and Breakfast at 221B Baker Street

**I know, I know. I just literally posted a chappie not even 24 hours ago! But hey, I couldn't help myself! I'm on a roll for once! I can't promise the next update will be nearly as quick as this one, dearies, but I hope it will be within the week! As well as a possible update on my Kristanna fic (FINALLY, RIGHT?) :)**

**Anywho! I got it in my mind to write one of the times Molly stays over at Baker Street, and John finds out it isn't the first time it's happened...also, this is after Series 3, soooo it's basically AU I guess! I'm going to be jumping around on the timeline a bit with these, loves, but I promise to warn you in this little note area as to not confuse y'all too much.**

**Much love! **

**XOXO,**

**OceansAria**

* * *

"Sherlock, are you actually _cooking_, because I could've sworn I smelled—"

John turned the kitchen corner as he finished buttoning his shirt, stopping dead in his tracks before he could cross the threshold. He had to refrain from rubbing at his eyes like in the cartoons, though he did blink twice to try and clear his vision. _My God, I'm seeing things! Maybe I really should get specs!_

"M-_Molly_?"

Molly didn't halt in pushing the scrambled eggs around in the pan. Her hair was tied up in a bun, though a handful of auburn wisps had escaped and were falling all around her ruddy cheeks. She wore a jumper with puppies and kitties and oversized pajama pants that John faintly recognized as his flatmate's.

"Oh, good morning! Hope all my racket down here didn't wake you." She turned to catch the two pieces of toast as they popped into the air. Stashing them on a plate, she rushed to fridge—not even flinching at the severed arm on the shelf—and grabbed the jar of marmalade and the half-empty carton of milk. She placed the toast and its toppings alongside the mugs and saucers on the cleared-off table. "Would you mind waking Sherlock, John? I'm afraid I couldn't get him to budge and I know he hates when his tea gets cold—"

"Don't bother. I'm awake."

John had been far too busy watching the cyclone of activity the pathologist was creating in the normally trashed kitchen to have noticed Sherlock's awakening. The detective didn't bother to return his flatmate's polite greeting as he shuffled over to the table in his bed sheet and plopped down quite ungracefully in his previously established seat at the table. John felt as if he had no other choice but to sit as well.

Molly swung by with her pan full of eggs sizzling and popping in the grease, pausing long enough to scoop a portion onto each of their plates and running her fingers through Sherlock's already-tousled bedhead. "Good morning!" she sang. She flew back to the other side of the kitchen, deposited the empty pan on the stove, and trifled through a drawer of odds and ends to produce two mismatching forks and a butter knife. She made the utensil drop off just as the kettle began to screech. All the while, John watched in utter amazement. Sherlock, however, was not as easily impressed. He didn't bother to glance up as Molly poured water into both of their mugs, or as she dropped the exactly correct amount of sugar and milk into his tea.

"Where's the butter?" Sherlock mumbled, a slice of toast in one hand, his lethargic gaze scrutizing the expanse of the table. "I de_test_ marmalade."

Molly scrambled to fulfill his request. "Oh, sorry, love!"

_Love?_ The simplicity use of the endearment almost made John choke on his mouthful of food. _Since when has she gotten the guts up to call him that? Since when has he _allowed_ her to have the guts to call him that?_

The clink of china on wood as Molly slid the butter dish jolted John from his tangled thoughts. His fork was paused over his plate now; he pondered whether to take another bite for it seemed his appetite was being pushed to second atop the agenda. Especially when Molly bent to brush her lips over Sherlock's temple, her hand wreathing into the curls at the back of his head. Still, not an inch of reaction from the detective—he simply carried about munching on his buttered toast.

"Welp," Molly settled her chin on Sherlock's crown of waves. His head lolled against her chest almost naturally. "I'm going to go get dressed. Bart's awaits."

John's gaze trailed the pathologist as she exited the kitchen and skipped her way to Sherlock's bedroom. The second the door was closed, his mouth opened. His fork clattered to his dish in a dramatic fashion that he had no one else but his flatmate to blame on.

"What in the bloody _hell_ is going on here?"

Sherlock scowled comically, sipping at his tea, and after a moment of decision, finding it to his liking. He ignored the eggs and went straight for a second piece of toast—which was supposed to be John's. John slapped the man's hand aside, causing Sherlock's scowl to only grow brattier.

"That's my toast, Sherlock, and I want an answer, damn you!" he hissed lowly. Leaning forward, he crossed his arms over his chest and scowled in his _I mean business_ way. "Why is Molly here? Why is she cooking us breakfast and calling you 'love'? Because the last time a girl popped out of your bedroom you got fake-engaged less than twenty-four hours later and almost killed hours after that!"

The detective rolled his eyes. "Oh, do shut up, John. Molly will not cause me all that trouble. Besides, the killing me part was all _your wife_, not Jeanette. By the way, how is Mary enjoying your old dwelling here? Terrible, that pipe exploding in your flat."

John ignored the attempt at a change in conversation. "You dating her will cause _her _some trouble, surely!" It was hard work to keep his voice from rising to a turmoiling crescendo, both for Molly's sake and Mary's just up the second set of stairs. He wagged his finger at the bloke next to him. "Sherlock, I know you. Molly has always been over the moon for you! You'll break that poor girl's heart. Sooner than later."

"Please," Sherlock scoffed. "You say that as if Molly and I are in a serious relationship."

John pursed his lips, his eyebrows knotting together. "You mean you _aren't_ dating Molly? Oh sweet Jesus don't tell me you're just using her for a case or something!"

"Using? No. _Dating_?" The detective spat the word out as if it had a hideous taste. "No, no. What is it you ordinary people call it?"

Molly reappeared, fully dressed in a clean lavender jumper and fresh jeans, her hair redone in a neat, sleek ponytail. She had a small overnight bag over her shoulder and a coat tucked through the loop between her arm and waist as she stepped into the kitchen. John could smell the scent of a citrusy shampoo or perfume from where he sat. Once she had come close enough, she once again bent and reached out a hand to gently steer Sherlock's mouth to hers.

"Mm, you taste like butter," she giggled softly. John noticed the girl couldn't seem to stop caressing Sherlock's mop of ringlets. "Now, don't leave all the washing up to Mrs. Hudson and Mary. And don't forget to put on proper clothes before you see any clients. I guess I'll see you two later, then?"

"Um, yes. Yes, I suppose," John responded in a daze. _Either this is one very odd dream or I'm in an alternate universe. _"Depends on what case we get."

"Call me if there are any particularly interesting cadavers," Sherlock breathed against her cheek, returning Molly's affections twice over with a solid kiss—the most attention he'd found worthy to pay the girl all morning. John averted his eyes to his cup of tea, feeling intrusive. "Especially any gruesome ones."

"I'll save you whatever fascinating body part you want, dear." She straightened her back to give John a fluttery wave. "Have fun solving crimes!"

With that, her bouncing ponytail disappeared out the door for the final time that morning. John held his tongue for the second time until Molly was surely gone and Sherlock had picked up the newspaper from where his lady friend had placed it by his virtually untouched plate.

"Ah, yes!" the detective cried suddenly, snapping his reed-thin fingers. He bent the top half of the paper over to meet John's eyes. "'Friends with benefits.' I do believe that's what you lot call it."

The ex-army doctor's eyebrows skyrocketed even higher—high enough to marry his hairline. He snorted a chuckle, disbelieving as always when it came to his mate, and dug back into his eggs though they had begun to grow chilly.

"You're a heartless bastard, you know that?"

Sherlock mocked a smile, snapping the paper upright to its proper posture.

"Molly doesn't think so."


	3. Sunday Surprise

**Me again.**

**So soon, you ask? Yeah well . . . I was bored and who can resist writing about their OTP? :P**

**Will admit that I'm _slightly_ proud of myself for updating this little series again so soon lol. I've had this idea in my head for days and just now got around to jotting it down. Hope there aren't too many mistakes because I honestly flew through it! This is kind of a two-part chappie-the next should be up within a few days! Thanks for the views and sweet comments so far!**

**XOXO,**

**OceansAria**

* * *

It was a drizzly, bleak mid-winter Sunday evening. The rain had come the previous night and lasted all throughout the following day. Being cooped up didn't suit neither of the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street well, though the lady of the household didn't mind curling up with a novel by the roaring hearth every now and then.

Molly lowered her stocking feet from where they had been propped up on the arm of her chair for most of the day. She made sure to bookmark her place in _Watership Down _as she rose to check on the dinner simmering on the stove.

Her husband of six years had finally grown still after pacing and yelling and searching his website a thousand times for a new case. It didn't matter that he'd only concluded one that same morning. Now he sat in his chair, knees pulled up to his chest, thumbs flying across the screen of his phone. Obviously something was important enough to distract him from pouting about being bored.

"Sherlock?"

It took her two more attempts of calling his name before he responded.

"Mmm?"

Molly raised up on tiptoe to grab the ground black pepper from the spice cabinet above the stovetop. Her mother's old recipe for beef stew was a tricky one to get right. "Is that Mycroft you're texting so furiously?"

"Yes, dear." His tone indicated his mind was somewhere else entirely.

"Could you tell him that Molly says he needs to start preparing himself to be an uncle in nine months?"

"Yes, of course—_wait_." The detective jumped out of his low chair so quick he was nothing but a whirlwind of indigo dressing robe as he raced to where his wife stood. He yanked her around to face him, resembling a cobra with the way he stared her down. "What did you just say about_ nine months?"_

Molly giggled, thrilled by his ecstatic reaction, taking her husband's face into her hands and pressing the softest of kisses on his brow. "Oh, Sherlock, you're clever enough to piece it together!"

His entire body went rigid. A long, quiet moment drew out as he sputtered helplessly before he finally managed to get out, "A baby?"

"Yes!" Molly was close to tears now—both from relief and joy. "A baby! Can you _believe _it?" She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her barely bloated abdomen. "I've been trying to tell you for two weeks but I had no idea how! So, I just kinda went for it. I mean, I really thought you would figure it out before now—I've been stuffing my face with sweets and puking out my intestines each morning and I haven't had wine in ages—but you were busy with that Doppleganger Gunman case and—"

"A. _Baby_." Sherlock abruptly felt the need to sit back down. Molly continued on with her cheerful babbling as he lowered himself into a kitchen chair and set his head in his hands. Before he could muster anything else to say, there was a knock at their gaping front door.

"Yoo-hoo!"

"Mrs. Hudson!" Molly wiped her hands on her half apron and took off in the older woman's direction. "We have _big_ news!"

The sound of shopping bags rustling was followed by a, "Oh! What is it, dear?"

"We're—We're pregnant!"

The shrill giggles and cries of excitement were drowned out by the throbbing crescendo of terror taking over the detective's brain—the melody only two words:

_A baby?_

* * *

**_(Terrified soon-to-be-a-father Sherlock is the cutest thing in my head okay)_**


	4. Flowers bring Showers

**GUYS.**

**GUYS PLEASE HELP I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME BUT I'M ACTUALLY _KEEPING MY PROMISE_ AND UPDATING LIKE CRAZY AND I'M SORRY IF I'M ANNOYING YOU BUT IT'S LIKE I _CAN'T STOP_ AND I HOPE I NEVER DO BECAUSE THIS IS THE MOST I'VE WRITTEN IN AGES. **

***deep breath***

**Okay. Phew. But seriously, y'all. WHAT THE HECK?! When did I suddenly catch writing fever? I hope it sticks around lol. ;P**

**This is part two to the previous chapter...in a way. It's another part about Molly's pregnancy. I just don't see Sherlock being majorly ecstatic about all the traditions that come with babies and the like. There might be another chapter or two about this first pregnancy, (most obviously the birth of the child) and then I'll move on to other things. Some will be about Sherlock and Molly before children and some will have their children with them.**

**Anyway, thanks for all the love so far! You guys are absolutely lovely :)**

**XOXO,**

**OceansAria**

* * *

"What's all this?"

The entire circumference of 221B Baker Street's living room was decorated in blues and pinks and frilly white lace doilies; worn fold-out chairs were aligned in a half circle in front of the mantle, both his chair and Molly's shoved aside for more room. A card table was set up in the middle of the whole shebang, a checked tablecloth and two presents already stacked there. Balloons glided around the air, bobbing about with the dust motes, all white with the words _Congratulations!_ emblazoned upon each. The smell of brewing coffee and cooling cake layers hit his senses like a suckerpunch.

Sherlock batted aside a bothersome balloon and repeated himself, seeming as the two women hard at work finishing the decorating hadn't noticed his entrance.

Mrs. Hudson clutched at her chest, giggling at his inquiry. "Why, a baby shower of course, Sherlock!"

The detective crinkled in his nose. "A _baby shower_? What on earth for?"

"To celebrate your baby's arrival, silly," Mary chided. Her arms were full of discarded bits of ribbon and lace. Sherlock could smell the vanilla buttercream icing remnants on her fingers.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock replied hastily. "But _why_ must we have a shower? The child isn't even here yet _to_ celebrate."

"Technically, the baby is here. Just tucked away for a little while longer until he—or she—gets tired of playing hide and go seek."

Molly joined them from the master bedroom, wearing a floral baby doll dress and a fuzzy sweater with lavender tights and ballet flats. Sherlock couldn't help but think she looked lovely with her glowing cheeks and bright eyes, happiness shining through each and every pore.

She kneaded her palms over her belly; a new fidget of hers. "Thank you so much, you two, for all of this. _Really_. You didn't have to."

"Shouldn't have," Sherlock mumbled.

Mary shot him a vicious glower as Mrs. Hudson took Molly by the elbow, tittering over how lovely she looked, and led her into the kitchen to finish setting up a few last things for the party.

The minute they weren't looking, Mary slapped his arm again.

Sherlock grabbed at his sore bicep. "Would you _please_ stop smacking me?"

"What the hell is wrong with you, Sherlock?!" Mary hissed, pulling him closer to be able to whisper. "We're throwing a baby shower for your first child and you're acting a belligerent, neglected brat! Why can't you just be happy for your wife, for your unborn baby? John and I never got to have a baby shower. You two never even had a proper wedding! The way I see it, Molly deserves everything normal and good in the world after all she's done for us, don't you think?"

"Yes, yes, she does." He ran a hand over his face. "But I'm neither. Gatherings aren't really my thing, as you know. I just feel that if you all insist upon experiencing this event . . . it would be better if I weren't present."

Mary's look only got dirtier. "You're her husband! The baby's father! You have to be here!"

"I'm on a _case_, Mary. Molly will understand." His phone dinged as a reminder of this, and he dug into his coat pocket. It was a text from Lestrade. _Need you at scene. _"She always does."

"Maybe not today."

She'd entered again without making much noise; her waddle of a walk prevented her from doing so. She carried a platter of cucumber finger sandwiches that rested on her womb. Her eyes were wide and her lips were wobbly—she'd been overly emotional at even the slightest thing since the second trimester began—and her expression read that she was either going to sob or break the platter over her husband's head.

Guilt pierced him straight through the chest. Mary muttered something incoherent and left the couple to rush downstairs. As much of a selfish ass he was, he despised himself for wounding his wife's feelings, especially when she was in such a tender state. He licked his lips. Only she could make him fidget so.

"Molly, my dear, please try to see . . . This case is very important, and —"

"_Stop_." Molly shook her head curtly, setting aside the platter on the card table. She reached out and threaded her callused stubby fingers with his elegant, long numbers. "I don't want to hear about the importance of case. Just stop and look at me and _tell me_ you don't find some dead man's mystery more important than your family. Because if you think for one damn second that I'll understand your leaving then you're _wrong_, Sherlock Holmes."

The detective remained eerily silent. His feline aquamarine eyes withheld from meeting his wife's, locked on the glint of her wedding band instead. Her hands were so swollen the skin of her finger puckered upwards around the gold, but she had refused to remove the ring. _So what if I look like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man? _she'd said when he'd questioned it._ I'm keeping this ring on because I'm your wife, and I want them to remember that even when I'm plump as a hog._

"Sherlock." She was crying now—huge, swollen, pregnancy hormones-induced tears. "Don't leave. Please, don't."

He bestowed her with a grim smile. "I don't belong at a party, dear. I've been told I'm quite the downer."

"Yes, you do! Didn't you hear me? We're your _family._" As she had done many times throughout this ordeal so far, she guided his palms to rest on her abdomen. "Mary, John, Lily, Mrs. Hudson . . . you belong with us, darling."

She hadn't even finished talking when he leaned into her and brushed a kiss over her hair, sliding his hands free all in a flash of motion. The self-condemnation had forced him into his decision. Sherlock knew if he stayed, he would do nothing but ruin the event for them all by voicing his deductions and doing other 'not good' or socially unacceptable things. Either way, he would be hurting his wife. He figured the most logical concept would be to remove himself from the equation entirely, then she could at least forget about him and enjoy the company of her superfluous acquaintances.

"I'll be back late. Don't bother to wait up for me. You need your rest."

Mrs. Hudson found Molly still standing there, mouth agape, when the first guest arrived fifteen minutes later. It was Ella Griffon, an old high school mate who had married twice and had three children. She was skinny as a rail from all her bad habits; her ragged fingernails dug into Molly's arms as she shook her.

"Hey, Moll!" Ella's cigarette breath was nothing like the comforting scent of smoke and ash Sherlock's skin carried. "You okay? You were just standing there staring like you'd seen a ghost!"

Molly could feel Mrs. Hudson and Mary's combined concern scorching her backside. Forcing the brightest smile possible, she pulled Ella in for a squeeze.

"I'm fine! Good to see you, Ella."

"You too, dear." Ella gave her another yellowed grin when they separated. "Say, where's that cunning bloke of a husband you got?"

Her smile could have cracked her complexion. From below, she heard the door and momentarily dared to hope it was her Sherlock. When it turned out to be the next guest arriving, Molly answered Ella's question with the most cheery tone she could muster.

"Oh, you know Sherlock," the lie was as bitter as mercury to her tongue. "The game is always on. I'm sure he'll drop by later."


	5. Iridium

**_Miss me?_**

**Lol I bet not! I wasn't gone long enough**.**:P**

**This one was just a little drabble idea I jotted out and decided to post kind of last second. Nothing super big happening here...**

* * *

The soles of her feet ached and her neck ached and everything simply, savagely _ached._

Her vision crossed and her feet stumbled and it was looking like staring at sheet after sheet of paperwork for five hours after her shift ended hadn't been her brightest decision to date. She wanted to take a hot bath, get ahold of a fresh cup of tea, and sleep until her next shift. She knew her husband wasn't in or she would have found him pacing the length of their living room, deep in thought over another case—or he would've actually bothered to shoot her a text.

_The bath and tea will have to wait till morning_. Molly could barely make it into the bedroom before she collapsed back onto the bed. She stripped down to her t-shirt and socks before she yanked back the covers and slipped under them—only to touch a suspiciously warm (and very human) bare chest.

"Boo."

"Holy _sh—_!_" _Molly sat upright quickly in the bed, glaring at the man who poked his rumpled head out from beneath the covers, a sly grin and a husky laugh on his lips. "_Sherlock_! I thought you were gone for the night! You scared me half to death!"

"Nonsense." He reached out and touched her inner wrist. "Your pulse escalated but you didn't keel over in a heart attack." He was naked. She could tell. One thing, after three years of marriage, that she had yet to understand was the reason behind Sherlock rebutting the presence of clothing while he slept.

"That's not the _point_, dear." She sunk back beneath the covers, allowing for him to tug her against him and nuzzle his face into her neck. His possessive actions and the way he always seemed to inhale her scent reminded her of a child—an incredibly handsome and witty one at that. "What if I'd had a gun? I could have shot you. Or if I hadn't been half asleep, I could have punched you."

"You wouldn't have."

"I could have."

"Nope," he popped the _p_ as he always did. _Total child._ "You couldn't harm me if you tried, Molly Holmes. You're too . . . _sweet._"

"Fine. Have it your way." She wiggled away and turned over to her opposite side, facing the wall where Sherlock's periodic table poster hung. Sometimes, when he was gone, she would stare at it for hours (though she had memorized it in finishing school) just to pass the time. "I'm too tired to do this petty argument spiel tonight."

Her eyes hadn't been shut two seconds when a finger tickled at her ribs. She bit back a giggle.

"I'm going to the countryside tomorrow to meet a client. How you like it if we turned it into a small holiday?" Sherlock's mouth brushed over the shell of her ear, his chin resting on her neck as he towed her close again.

Molly pressed her back into his chest, savoring his body heat in the cool room. "No John?" As much as she adored the man, there were moments when she simply wished to have her husband to herself.

"No John."

"No . . ." she maneuvered her face around to meet his, their breaths entangling and her arms snaking around his neck. Fingers curled into hair, lips molding in the dark. ". . . running off and leaving me behind to worry?"

"You'd worry no matter the cause." He hummed against her mouth; he tasted of peppermint attempting to cover cigarette smoke and scotch. Molly's fingers stroked over his cheekbones, finding a bumpy bruise and a shock of tiny scratches. His case must've involved a bit of combat. She had stopped inquiring over these type of things long ago, knowing that her husband was as resilient as a rubber band and if were truly in need of medical attention, John would've insisted upon it before he let Sherlock out of his sight.

"What time do we leave?"

The hair on his legs tickled her bare knees when he wrapped his body further around hers. "Eight o'clock sharp. I've already packed our bags."

"You didn't forget my good jumper, did you?"

"_Good_?" Sherlock chuckled deep in his throat. "You mean that hideous thing with the tattered elbows and the whimsical floral pattern? No, I actually packed you things _I _like seeing you wear."

Molly slapped his arm. He growled at her playfully, something he rarely did that always made her blush and a second giggle to climb in her throat. "We should get some shut-eye then. You might have to carry me to the station, love. I don't know if I'll be awake enough to walk without tripping."

"Then you're never awake enough."

She stuck out her chin defiantly. "Could you do me a favor, darling?"  
Her husband pulled her so snugly against his chest she could feel the indentions of his collarbones against her shoulder blades as he purred, "Of course."

"Shut the bloody hell up."

His lovely snigger made her pulse flutter.

"Yes, of course, dear. Sleep well."

She fell asleep with her eyes focused on the Iridium square of the poster, the prospect of a few days alone with Sherlock in the tranquil countryside of Britain lulling her into sweet imaginings.

* * *

**..thought I might continue and write about the holiday they took :)**

**XOXO,**

**OceansAria :)**


	6. EHFH

**So I went a little further down the Sherlolly baby road...next chappie about their baby will be about the first week of parenthood after bringing the bundle of joy home! **

**Let me know if ya wanna hear about more Sherlolly babies...;)**

**XOXO,**

**OceansAria :)**

* * *

Everything was peaceful for the time being after hours of naught but obnoxious noise. There was a bundle of warmth and tranquility in Molly's arms, snoozing off the experience of the catastrophic racket and being brought into the world. They were alone besides the nurse, who stepped out of the room when she finished making sure neither needed anything.

After years of experience in listening for her husband's arrival, the soft click of his footfalls did not go unregistered when they halted at the open door. Her heart sprinted in her chest, her skin flushing, as she adjusted the blanket cocooning her sweet little bundle, refusing to meet Sherlock's scrutinizing stare.

"He's got your eyes," she breathed, smiling. "And your dark curls too. Already, he's more yours than mine. But I think he has my nose."

Sherlock's tone was neutral. "He? I thought you claimed it was a girl."

"I never found out. Wanted it to be a surprise." Molly pressed a kiss to her son's wispy single curl. "You know, I never imagined I would have a moment like this. Especially with _you_, Sherlock. Maybe some other ordinary man with a balding spot and a pouch around his waist who worked for some law firm or was a doctor—but never you." Far too bashful to look him in the eye, she continued, "How was the case? I'm guessing you're finished or else you wouldn't be here."

"Molly—" he stopped abruptly, fists clenching and unclenching. "Molly, you must—"

When she finally gave in and glanced up, she shut her mouth from arguing any further. Though his schooled expression wouldn't ever betray him, his eyes did. They had darkened to an almost emerald sapphire mixture. A gasp passed her lips lowly and she returned her attention to her son. Changing the subject was the best option.

"I haven't thought up the perfect name yet. I had a couple ideas, but we never really had time to discuss . . ." Her breath caught in her throat when she realized Sherlock had crossed the expanse of the hospital room and was now stationed at her bedside, his body language intense and full of curiosity as it combed over the bundle in her arms. He kept staring, and as she watched him, she finally realized.

"Oh! Um, would you like to hold him?"

She watch the quiver of his jaw, the fidget of his fingers. This tiny being was the first person he perhaps could not deduce for as long as he had lived—and this fact was completely unnerving him.

"Yes." Sherlock held out his gloved hands uncertainly. "Yes, I suppose I would."

The transfer from her arms to his wasn't as smooth as it portrayed in the movies. Sherlock bent at the knees just enough so she wouldn't have to move too much; she was insanely sore from her ribcage down. When the babe was finally safe in his father's arms, she rested back against the pillows with another sigh of release.

"I think I woke him," Sherlock mumbled. A tiny fist raised into the air, followed by a faint gurgle. The child's fingers uncurled and then locked themselves into the soft, damp fabric of his father's scarf. Sherlock watched it all with an acute awestruck expression. He attempted prying the scarf from the baby's grasp but found he couldn't. "He's fairly . . . spirited."

"He is," Molly agreed.

"I daresay you're wrong, however."

"Excuse me?"

"The child doesn't have 'my eyes', as you put it." The tiny fist latched on tighter to Sherlock's scarf as the new father peered into the baby's face invasively. "They may be blue now—many babies are born with blue eyes—but I predict they'll change to brown like yours the older he gets."

Molly couldn't prevent her smile. "Oh. Well, that's lovely to hear. At least he'll look a little like his mum."

Sherlock rocked back and forth on his heels, not entirely sure of his actions. His newborn's fist soon loosened and fell limply against his tiny chest as he dozed off once more. The detective found that he could not contain his grin either. "I think you both need a good night's rest," Sherlock said, carefully returning the babe to his mother's embrace. He pressed the most tender of kisses into Molly's hairline, cupping the back of her head with his palm; then doing the same for his son. "I also think that Edward is a pleasant name."

"Edward, eh?" Molly grabbed his collar with her free hand before he could get too far. "Hmm. How about Edward Hamish Fitzwilliam Holmes?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Two middle names like his father? I'm not so sure about that, dear."

"Hey! You get Hamish, after John, and I get Fitzwilliam." She punctuated her protest with a firm kiss to her husband's mouth. "My father's middle name. He could go by Hamish."

Sherlock clucked his tongue thoughtfully. "I see. Edward Hamish Fitzwilliam Holmes. Sounds . … _pretentious._" His eyes crinkled with mirth. "I like it."

"Good. Because I've made up my mind and there's no changing it now." She got another kiss out of him, letting her lips linger until she broke it off to whisper, "You're still going to have to make it up to the both of us for missing the big moment."  
Sherlock's joyous eyes filled with sudden self-reproach. Lips twisted into a frown. He took Molly's pale, thin fingers into his and rested his forehead on them as if he were bowing. "Wishing is pointless—but I do wish that I could have been here for the both of you."

Seeing the tender, humane side of her husband always made a spark jitter in her veins. She accepted the brush of his lips on her cheek with a blush and pumped his fingers before he could let go.

"I'll be back, Molly. I've got to contact Mrs. Hudson and John and Mary. They'll want to visit you both."

Molly tugged self-consciously at the ill-fitting hospital gown. "Tell them to forgive my appearance. What I wouldn't give for a hairbrush and some mascara," she laughed.

Sherlock's grin returned with vengeance. "You don't need to ask for their forgiveness, my dear. You look lovely as always."

Molly felt like her face would implode from all the beaming she was doing today. The child began to stir, diverting her from returning the sentiment. Being a mother came far more natural than she had feared. "Oh, darling. Hamish, it's alright, love. Shh, shh. Go back to sleep for Mummy, please."

His fingers made quick work on his phone, pulling the door to behind him. "Mrs. Hudson. Yes, I'm all right. I thought you would like to know that our son has been born." He yanked the phone away when she screamed. "Do stop _squealing_ like a piglet, Mrs. Hudson! Yes, Molly and the child are both healthy. Yes, come down as soon as you can. We'll be expecting you."


	7. And Things

**Another quickie installment about the first Sherlolly offspring! He's a total morbid cutie in my imaginings, dearies. **

**Thanks to all who have left lovely comments so far! They're rather encouraging and definitely keep me wanting to continue with this. :) I plan for the next chappie to be about the weekend holiday the two lovebirds take to the Peak District countryside. (Which I've already started on!) Then, after that, I'll write another baby chapter possibly..but not about Hamish ;P**

**XOXO,**

**OceansAria :)**

* * *

Molly paused in the doorway, arms overbrimming with groceries, chest heaving from the brisk walk back from the grocery. Her cheeks were flushed from the nippy February air—the heat of the flat instantly revamping them as she stilled—savoring the scene she beheld.

Sherlock and their twenty month old son sat on the floor by the hearth across from each other, both with legs crossed. Hamish was watching his father with wide, intelligent russet eyes as he played with the baby blue stuffed elephant that Mrs. Hudson had given him at birth. Already, the fabric was matted and somewhat faded. Sherlock, on the other hand, was waving homemade flash cards in front of his son's eyes, impatiently prompting the child to do his bidding.

"Hamish. _Hamish_, what does this say? Can you say blood? Bloooood?" Sherlock impatiently shuffled the card in turn for another. "How about skull? Can you say skull, Hamish? Skuuuuuull?"

"_Sherlock_!" Molly dropped the bags on the spare amount of kitchen counter (experiments were strewn all over, as per usual), shaking her head despairingly in her husband's direction. "Why are you teaching our son such nasty words?"

"Oh, do calm down! He's going to hear them sooner or later between his pathologist and the sociopath parents, dear. Besides, he should be talking properly by now." Sherlock explained, waving the cards in front of his son again. The tot only giggled and grabbed a card to stuff in his mouth, further maddening his father. "Ugh!" Sherlock scrambled to his feet, slapping the stack down on a side table and stomping childishly into the kitchen. "All he does is jibber-jabber like a lunatic! In the books, it said he should be forming half to full short sentences by now, Molly. He doesn't even want to try!"

All the while he babbled, his wife was occupied with shoving aside severed limbs and Ziplock baggies of pinkie fingers to the left side of the refrigerator so that she had room to stash lettuce, tomatoes, and packages of ground beef. She rolled her eyes. "Darling, I'm sure Hamish can speak right proper, I've listened him babble for hours to his stuffed animals before—he's probably teasing you, is all."

Sherlock blubbered, "_Teasing_ me?"

"He's a total silly nilly bloke like his father," Molly swiveled to place the boxes of tea in the cabinet under the stovetop. She stopped just long enough to plant a sloppy kiss on Sherlock's cheek as he gaped at her furiously. "Leave him be and then maybe he'll talk for you."

Sherlock sucked thoughtfully on his lower lip, nibbling at the skin and ruffling his hair. He turned to find Hamish climbing up the seat of his low-backed chair, flashcard soaked with drool in one tiny fist. The child made himself comfortable with his short, plump legs stuck out in front of him. On the arm of the chair sat a stack of photos from a recent case of Sherlock's—who watched with a sudden blip of amusement as his son departed with the flashcard to giddily pick up the pictures.

Hamish gurgled with laughter. The young Mr. Holmes was all rosy, freckled round cheeks, dastardly butterfly eyelashes, and the sweetest little voice: "Deaf! Deaf!"

Molly smacked her husband's arm with a stalk of celery. "Told you! Listen, he's saying something proper!"

"Suppose so." Sherlock smirked. Moving slickly over the carpet, he settled on the chair's arm to point a finger at the snapshot of a hanged dirtbag, neck slouching to the side, purple and indigo veins streaking up from the injury all over the man's face. "Say it again, Hamish," Sherlock requested.

Hamish obliged with another silly smile, his mouth only half-full of little pearly white teeth. "Deaf, Pa! Deaf!"

"Death! Yes, _yes_, exactly!" Sherlock clapped his hands together, beaming so hard he could feel his wrinkles crinkling up his eyes and cheeks. "Now can you say skull? Say it, Hamish, please. For your father, yeah?" He shuffled the pictures—now sticky with saliva as well from the tot's fingers—to another hideous corpse.

"Tull!" Hamish laughed. "Tull, tull, tull!"

Molly's rustling stilted in the kitchen as she peeked into the threshold to ask a confused yet charmed, "What are you two boys going on about in here?"

"Nothing, my dear!" Sherlock quickly kissed the crown of Hamish's head and ruffled the dark curls that matched his own, a rare action altogether. "Simply the usual . . ." He punctuated the sentence with a lethally sweet smile. "…_death_ and things."


	8. Salvation & Damnation

**I know it took me a little longer to update this time but I was writing both this chapter and the one about the holiday they take at the same time lol. That one will be posted next! **

**XOXO,**

**OceansAria :)**

* * *

Sometimes, things didn't run smooth.

Sometimes, she had to shove him out the flat door onto the streets of London with nothing but the clothes on his back. She would fasten the curtains shut and make the children go to their room; then she would pour herself a stout glass of wine just to numb the pounding migraine. She would sit in front of the hearth in one of his dressing gowns—usually the blue one, for that was her favorite—crying and fuming until she fell asleep or rose to go to bed to do her sniveling in private.

Sometimes, she wouldn't see him for weeks. Wouldn't even receive a text or a call. The children stopped asking in due course. They knew from a young age that their papa had scarred-over issues with a monster of some type, and that there were chapters he went through when the past came back to nip his progress in the bud.

Sometimes, she almost accepted the blinding prospect that Sherlock would never return.

When they wed, he told her he had made enough vows to last him a lifetime that day, and that he, sadly, couldn't make her a solid promise that he could stay clean of his various horrid habits. Molly accepted this about her husband, not blissfully mind you. She knew, however, that marriage was all 'give and take', a day to day experiment on how they could make things function as one unit. She knew that it all boiled down to the fact that her love for him—not silly schoolgirl fascinations, but honest-to-God _love_—would keep her from ever truly giving up on Sherlock. As many reasons as he piled up for her to quit trying, she simply found more reasons to_ never _do so_._

* * *

"Okay, thanks. Phone if you hear or see anything, yeah?" In the distance on the other end, she could hear John mumbling. "Thanks again, Mary. Mm-hmm. Talk to you later. Bye."

"Mum?" The phone hadn't been out of her hand a second before Hamish was at her side, russet eyes wide with curiosity and concern. "Elizabeth isn't sharing the computer."

"Dear, you've been on the computer all evening. Let Lizzie have a go at it then you can get your hands on it, yeah?"  
"Yes, Mum." He refused to budge from his spot though he had gotten what he came for. The twelve year old acted far wiser than his age so often his mother was fooled at times in to thinking he was older. He snaked a thin arm around his mother's waist and rubbed his cheek against her side. "Pa will come back, Mum. He's just being silly. That's what you always say. Pa's silly nilly habits."

Molly wanted to believe the words she had fed her children, fed herself and her colleagues and friends. _He'll come back. Always does._

Mycroft had a completely different point of view. _"Molly, don't be stupid. Knowing my little brother he's probably so under the influence he hasn't had the slightest blip of reality. He doesn't want to be found, he doesn't want to come home. If and when we do get his hands on him . . . I'm not entirely sure the rehabilitation center will take him back after the last bout."_

She forced herself to shut down all trains of thought like a switch being flipped off.

"I know he will, love." Molly bent to kiss Hamish's hair. She clutched his thin shoulders, breathing in her child's offered comfort. "Mummy's being a worry wart, is all. Now run along. Dinner will be ready soon."

* * *

She found him in the park that following Tuesday—the park she took Hamish and Lizzie to every once in a while on a nice day, to play on the swings and maybe feed the ducks if the creatures were around. He was sitting on one of the sparse benches, legs crossed, fingers steepled under his chin, and eyes screwed tightly shut. The only thing he'd kept of his regular outfitting was the Belstaff. Otherwise, he looked like the usual druggie on the streets: muddy sneakers, raggedy cargo pants and an equally tattered t-shirt, a beanie covering the curls he'd passed down to their son.

Molly had been walking by herself that day on her lunch break. Normally she would eat in the canteen with some of her colleagues, but today she needed fresh air to clear her head. Her husband had left in the dead of the night a week ago. This was the second time he'd gone off on a substance abuse spiel since they'd gotten married. First since the birth of their children. Sure, he'd gone back and forth between smoking cigs and stopping cold turkey, but drugs . . . if he'd had a problem with them during their relationship, he hid it very well. The threat of a danger night was nearly extinct.

Her first thought was to turn tail or take another path, for the one she was on would sail her directly in front of him. Even if he seemed to be in his mind palace, he could and _would _somehow sense her there. And whether he was high as a tweety bird or not, Molly had no interest in speaking to him just yet.

_Or do I?_

Molly's feet took control and soon she was standing directly in front of the man she called husband. Provider, protector, lover. She fiddled with the scarf her mother had made her as a Christmas present some years before. The bright pastels were striking against the dull grays and browns of the deadened park.

Instead of addressing him, she sat down on the other end of the bench. Very few were courageous enough to venture out into the chilly world unless their needs commanded it. February in London was brutal. Molly blew on her hands and stuck them between her thighs in hope of reviving the nerves in her fingers. Her watch read 12:34. By the time she walked back to Bart's from the park, her lunch break would be up and the day would go on as it normally did.

"Molly."

She almost jumped ten feet off the bench. "S-Sherlock?"

His head swiveled towards her, eyes slitting open. The sight Molly beheld made her empty insides turn. Shadows and sunken cheeks and bloodshot feline eyes. Hair so greasy it hung limply over his high forehead. She bit her lip to keep from crying and/or punching him. This entire situation made her more than furious. More than terrified.

"You've come to fetch me, then?" he challenged lowly, voice rough with underuse. He uncrossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. "I'd say, I can't believe it took you lot this long to figure out my location."

"No, I haven't come to _fetch _you." Her heartbeat was rapidly escalating in her ears and wrists. He'd been in the park the entity of the week. "You're not a child—as much as you act like it—and I'm not your mum. You're responsible for your own actions, Sherlock."

He sneered, rolling his eyes. "So you simply came to talk, I assume?"

"I didn't come. I didn't even know you were here."

"You haven't been searching?" his voice had gone up a note, almost weakened.

Molly shook her head. It was hard to look at him dead-on. "No, I haven't. I've been a tad busy taking care of the children and making a living."

"Our children," he insisted fiercely.

"What?"  
He leaned closer to her. Eyes slitted, eyebrows drawn, mouth thin and pale, teeth grinding. "They're not _the_ children, they're _our _children."

She couldn't stop her fists from clenching. "Yes, _they_ are, and they need for their father to stop being such a bloody brat and to _come home _and act his damn age!" She reached out, uncurling her fist to grab his hand. "I don't want to force you into rehab, dear. I don't want to keep you away or for you to stay away. I want you to handle this mess, leave it all dead in the past, and get your arse to 221B Baker Street, you hear me?"

Molly found him shocked to stillness, eyes saturated with her. Rather than allowing him the time to process an answer, she went on in a softer voice. "You're a pain in my rump, darling. Always have been. But it's a good pain most of the time."

Sherlock dipped his head, snorting. "If I'm such an imprudent ass . . ."

"I wouldn't have you any other way."

He stared at her in his overly intense way as she stroked his stubbly cheek with her fingertips.

"I'm not coming home today."

"Why not?"

"I'm on a case."

"Then why can't you work from home? Hamish would love to help you with it—"

"_Hamish_ doesn't need to get involved."

"He's helped you before!"

"He's a child, Molly. He needn't get in the way."

"Get in the _way_?"

He shut down in his robotic way, refusing to answer her yet again for a few minutes. When he did, it was hardly what she expected to come out of his mouth. "Molly Hooper, why are you so good to a horrible man?"

"It's Holmes now." Everything about her behavior went from soft to shards. "And you know why."

Sherlock appraised her in a glance of ratification; he always did to this day when she stood up to him. He patted her hand, set it back in her lap, and forced another grim smile to appease Molly.

"Well, then, Mrs. Holmes. I'm sorry I couldn't give you better news—but you're husband will not be returning to Baker Street today."

The apology was sincere even if his tone wasn't. Molly knew that.

"What about tomorrow?"

His bottom lip curled in ponderously. "Tomorrow is a wait-and-see kind of thing, yes?"

"So tomorrow, maybe?"

"Everything about tomorrow is a maybe, Molly."  
The urge to slap the daylights out of him only grew.

"_Sherlock_."

He leaned and gave her forehead a quick kiss, taking the sides of her face gently into his hands. His normal scent of tobacco, linen, and peppermint was smothered by dirt and embers. "Believe in me, as you always have."

"Sherlock?"

"I'll see you again soon, Mrs. Holmes."

Though he had bid her goodbye, she was the one to get up and walk away.

* * *

Saturday morning, Molly decided to make fresh rye bread as she had done every Saturday since her mother fell ill and wasn't able to make it herself.

Mixing, kneading, and rolling the dough sucked away a good amount of her frustrations. The ovens soon warmed the entire space of the kitchen, reviving her frozen joints as she moved about steadily. She wiggled her toes in her socks as she turned up the tiny portable radio set on the classical station—the only station Sherlock considered listening to. _All "modern music" isn't music_, he'd scoff.

Mrs. Hudson's tinkering started downstairs a little after eight. The children began stirring above in their room not long after as the aromas of baking bread wafted up from the oven when Molly checked on the progress. She set aside the first loaf on the cluttered desk near the barely cracked window to cool when she saw the man.

Her oven mitts came off in a flurry; her low, messy ponytail slicked back by flour-covered hands. She turned and dashed down the stairs towards the foyer and the front door. Snow had started to fall again, slicking over all of the frozen bits left behind from the night before.

"Sherlock?"

He had gone to scurry away in the opposite direction as she had wanted to do in the park. But this time, he had the decency to face her.

"You've come home, then?" Hummingbird wings flittered in her chest insanely. Snow caught in her eyelashes, on her cheeks. "Sherlock?"

He'd replaced the hideous sweats with an extremely rumpled suit. His Belstaff was just as dirtied as it was when she saw him on Tuesday, the collar drawn high to block out the brisk gusts. He took measured steps on his way back to the front steps of 221 Baker Street.

"Sherlock?" Worry swapped out the excitement. Dread weighed down the hummingbird. "Sherlock, please don't be coming here to get money or something for the case—"

His arms seized Molly around her waist. He didn't kiss her, or make any passionate outburst, but simply yanked her against his tall, lanky frame and held her close. The flour in her hair and all over her apron smeared across the crumpled suit and his overcoat. Feeling her husband's ever steady pulse made every inch of insecurity dissipate.

"Have you been baking?" he chuckled, his fingers running tenderly over her scalp.

Molly raised her face to his. "I bake every Saturday, you moron."

"Rye or sourdough?"

"It's the third weekend of the month."

"So, rye then."

"Yes."

Molly wanted to trace the crinkles around his exhausted eyes and smile with her fingertips, wanted to his chapped lips grace hers and his breath tickle her cheeks. Her fingers twisted into the hair at the back of his head. "Are you really?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Really, what?"  
"Staying."

He placed a chaste kiss on her temple. She wished to rid the memory of their time apart.

"May I see our children?"

Molly moved back to take his hand. They were alone on the London street except for a few lonely taxis. Sherlock pulled their front door to behind them, as they were greeted with giggles from the oldest and youngest residents of 221 Baker Street, not understanding why until Lizzie cried out, "Mummy! Pa! You're covered in flour!"

Mrs. Hudson ran to the detective and squeezed the life out of him in her embrace. The older woman turned to the younger at Sherlock's side and said, "Oh, Molly, dear, I think your second loaf has burned to a crisp from the smell of it."

"Bullocks!" Molly let go of her husband to dash up the stairs. The children swiftly followed their mother, squealing and exclaiming for her to hurry.

"Is it all taken care of then, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson inquired in a whisper the minute they were alone. "They're safe?"

Sherlock nodded, ears tuned in to the voices of his family above.

"For the time being, yes."


End file.
